The Week That Was

It's been seriously, wildly, balmy this week. Light jacket weather. Flimsy shoe weather. Perfect gardening weather. Hard to believe it's January. Usually it's blustery, cold, windy, frosty, icy, thunderous, rainy, misty, or very very gray and wet. Take your pick. But now - it's like being in the eye of a giant storm: clear, calm, sunny. So of course I had to take advantage of it and get out into the garden. Like any good PNWer. 

Of course! There's always something to do in the garden. Or greenhouse. (Sheila coughs politely and ignores the mess that is the interior of her house)

So without further ado, I present to you:

January in the Pacific North West

(I sound entirely too optimistic, don't I?)

Almost time to take the Squirrel Baffles off the pots of bulbs, although watch, I'll remove them and the little squirrel buggers will go mad, digging and flinging and chewing and shredding.

Ugh. Squirrels have taken top spot in my Compendium Of Irritating Things In The Yard, dislodging Bishops Weed for the first time in 4 years. As a result we are now the possessors of a Squirrel Trap. I am planning on catching them and releasing them on a nearby mountain. Someone I know drowns them. We tried that with a rat; it seemed to take bloody forever before we knew for certain it was dead and we both felt ill after the experience. I don't think I could drown a squirrel. Those lovely, wavy, furry tails. Oops. Must. Remain. Detached. Remember destruction of garden. Digging of beds. Shredding of shade fabric. Chewing of pumpkins, tomatoes, apples, peaches, and lemons. Argh.

Abeliophylum buds. Look at them - they look ready to burst. This otherwise unremarkable shrub has a magnificently light, sweet, scent when it blooms in early spring, although judging by this photo I think it thinks it IS early spring. It is as beguiled by our January as I am.

Someone at a garden centre talked me into this when I said I didn't want to spend $80 on a witch hazel. Initially I put it in the bed by the front door, where the winter box is (another fabulous plant for winter scent), so we could smell it as we come and go, but it crowded the fuchsias so it's on the move again. Right now it's in a pot in the back yard, ready to migrate to the deck, where it will likely appreciate the longer period of sunlight the deck receives.

 This corner edge of the vegetable garden has been re-done at least eight times, the last one occurring two days ago. If you look bottom left you'll see the chunk of rail metal I use as a hose guide. A heavy, unmoveable hose guide is something that comes in handy if you're like me and you tend to drag your hose all over the yard but don't stop to make sure the hose isn't knocking over bricks, shallow ledges, walls, and breaking pretty terracotta pots.

You can see the chunk that one of those moments of inattention took out of the pot in the front, housing a hugely forgiving sedum "Autumn Joy." Directly behind that is one of the most beautiful blues you've ever seen in a flower, the sometimes tender but always impressive agapanthus.

 This arbor was purchased in a rather rash moment at a garden centre sale. It was greatly discounted at this sale, too, and I was unable to resist. That's what I said to Richard, and while he agreed $20 WAS cheap, he added that that might not be such a good thing, terms of longevity and/or stalwartness.

Time, sadly, has proved him correct. It's required a lot of attention on my part, usually after a wind.

Here it is after my latest ministrations. Interestingly, it looks better than it's looked for a few years. I used the long, relatively straight, water shoots I pruned off the Granny Smith as my new arches. I bundled them together, snipped the ends even, used electrical tape to secure them in the middle, then wired each piece to the old, broken struts and eventually wired the entire thing back together.

 At times I felt as though I were doing Horticultural Dentistry of a sort, wiring the broken jaw of my poor abused arbor, restoring it to its former glory, although perhaps glory is too strong a word.

 Here I had to tape the pencil post as the sledge hammer shattered it a bit. I'll let you know how weatherproof electrical tape is. I'm sure I'll be disappointed, but I had no other tape to hand.

Plus, I ran out of wire, so tape had to suffice.

Tip: when commencing Garden Chores make sure you have sufficient supplies. Of everything.

Or you might end up using electrical tape.

And regretting it later.

 The south side of the greenhouse now has two heat mats set up. They are the big, square, heat mats, which can accommodate two trays of seedlings each, but right now I'm using guttering as my seedling trays: kale ('Red Russian'), lettuces ('Esmeralda' 'Conquistador' 'Early Baby Mix') and peas ('Sugar Daddy').

Guttering is incredibly handy for growing small batches of greens. You don't need much soil, the interface between the heat mat and the plastic container is minimal, and it's super easy to transplant: simply slide the length of soil off the tray into the prepared bed (tip: prepare the bed FIRST). The only trick is keeping the soil moist. Let it dry out and your seedlings will be, as they say, toast.

I'm hoping to have a regular variety of lettuces this year, which sounds nice in theory but requires a certain amount of mathematical plotting and planting so one has a constant supply of seedlings to pop into those empty spots.

 Here's a row of peas. As you can see, there isn't much soil in the gutter yet the peas are thriving. I use Sunshine Mix #2 as my soil, amended with a few scoops each of bone meal, rock phosphate, and eggshell. I use a spray bottle to water. I'm pretty miserly with it, to minimize rot and mildew.

This is my favourite garden tool. It's a Japanese pick thingie I bought at Lee Valley, for what, at the time, I thought was an ungawdly amount of money: in hindsight it's been worth every penny.

As long as Richard sharpens it regularly.

Otherwise it's guaranteed to make you swear a fair bit as you hack futilely at the roots of some stupid spurge or the holly bush that keeps reproducing itself all over the garden.

Watching The Sun Rise

Someone on the local homeschool list here posted a link to Journey North's Mystery Class (link here) and while I've seen a lot of homeschool bloggers post about it, we've never tried it. That said, I remember when Dominic and I had our year of morning walks and how much pleasure we took in seeing how the 7am sky changed over the seasons. Then I tore my Achilles tendon and we had to stop. It took almost 14 months for that tendon to be solid enough to walk vigorously on, and by then we'd both lost of thrill of getting up and outside before 7am.

Wispy view across the valley

Now we peer outside the kitchen windows in the morning and look at the sunrise that way.

It's a perfectly charming experience, but I do miss those early morning ramblings, because I'm sure they'd remind me that the sunrise is coming earlier and earlier. Right now I find myself saying the same thing every morning at the same time: "It's SO DARK!" The kids have taken to reminding me that I say this over and over again, too, which is always thrilling.

Squabbling pleasantly over Commander Bly

 I will try to post a bit about our progress, try being the operative word here: my Clean Sock Resolution isn't a resounding success at the moment, mostly because the accompanying Constant Mopping Requirement is such a chore. What with the days being so dry and clear, I'd much rather be in the garden in the mornings, as opposed to looking at the cluttered heap that is my Post-Christmas kitchen.

If Only It Were So

Attn: Please,


We wish to notify you Again that you were listed as a lawful Heir/Beneficiary to the total sum of  (Three Million Six Hundred Thousand British Pounds).

A regular mail was dispatched to you but no response from you. We request you to kindly acknowledge this email to enable us process your inheritance.



Yours truly.
Admin Staff.
QServices Uk.

=================================================


 Dear Yours truly.

 Your letter showed up in my Junk Mail box this morning. I don't want to sound patronizing, but the worryingly bad punctuation (surely you have someone who can fix this for you?), odd language (am I a "lawful Heir" OR a "Beneficiary" and why don't you seem sure?), and the fact that the sum itself is in brackets makes me kind of suspicious.

What sort of response do you want from me? If you tell me you need my bank account information you and I will have to cease all correspondence. I might live in eternal hope but I'm not a complete idiot, although the fact that I'm actually responding to you makes my point slightly suspect.

Sincerely,

Attn: Please,

New Year Revelations

I'm not the sort of person who usually makes New Year resolutions, to be honest. If I do, I generally try to think of something philosophical or uplifting, like being nicer and less potty-mouthed when I'm behind a car wheel, or being (marginally) more patient with fractious offspring in Trying Moments, but these things never last much past January. A brief spasm of remorse might hit me in late spring, but like most resolutions when viewed from a distance of time, the guilt never lasts long: too many other things are claiming my attention by then. 

The garden, for one thing. 

The back yard in December

Anyhow, this week I had a bit of a revelation about why my New Year's resolutions never come to much. It's this: I don't make the right sorts of resolutions. My resolutions are predicated on certain failure. I need to focus on resolutions that have a higher success rate. 

Take swearing while driving - a useless resolution if there ever were one. Swearing is the single most satisfying method to cope with the stupid behaviours and idiotic driving patterns of one's fellow drivers. Not swearing, by contrast, would be hazardous to my health, I feel quite sure. Besides, it gives the kids a useful compendium of flowery yet articulate expressions from which to draw once they're over 18, the age at which I've deemed it Okay To Swear In Mum's Hearing (although I reserve the right to cringe, wince, or roll my eyes).

Then there was that resolution about being Nice Mummy, as opposed to Mostly Nice But Sometimes Very Shouty Mummy. To illustrate how extra futile that one was, I'll tell you a story: once upon a time Eldest Son was in a rush, and got himself into a state of extra special, no good, simply terrible irrationality while trying to simultaneously burn a CD (for a gift he was very late giving), study for a chemistry test (which was the next day), and write up a 4-H report, all the while finishing his supper. He was doing all this in the Family Room (where we never eat meals, where I have banned all food and drink, and where we have some expensive electronic items on tables). If this were a game of Clue, we'd have the Kid in the Family Room with the Food, trying to kill the Computer, because that's what happened. The moment, such as it was, ended with butter smeared all over my optical drive, many poorly burned CDs, and some choice expressions uttered in the heat of the moment. Another epic failure of resolution. I know, I know, there are contexts and there are contexts, but that scenario made me realize the pointlessness of being someone I'm not, just for the heck of a New Year Resolution.

This week, as I said, I had a revelation. It centred around my new socks. See photo below. These are my new Highly Favoured Household Footwear. I call them sockette thingies. I love wearing my sockette thingies, but they're white, and white is not a colour that lasts long in this house. After a few days of wear that lovely white was gray and brown (and sometimes black). Washing helped a little, but only a little. I resorted to soaking them overnight in Pink Solution before washing, which amused Husband greatly: "What are these things doing in this bucket?" he asked me, in between the odd snicker. "That's not like you."

No, it isn't. I hate doing laundry. Like bed-making, it seems to exist simply so I can do it over and over again. I feel as though I'm in an Escher sketch, doing the Munch Man scream.

 

 But then I realized why my cherished sockettes were getting so dirty. See next photo, below, of floor. Nice uncovered wood floor. Ignore cat tail. He just wants you all to know what a lemur tail he is in possession of. It wends its way into many a photo.

Anyhow, it occurred to me that the reason my sockette thingies were so dirty was because of these lovely wood floors. In addition to rarely making a bed, or doing laundry, I also never mop these floors. I do know people who mop, but let's just say that I'm not one of them.

So I mopped the entire top floor. All seven rooms. I concentrated on where the feet spend most time. I ended up mopping it twice in one week, prompting some odd looks from FDPG and her twin, who had never seen me mop the wood floors before. "Are you sure you're supposed to do that to them?" FDPG asked me, uneasily. "It might not be good for them!" echoed Dominic.

Never mind, I thought, it will be good for my sockette thingies. Finally, a resolution worth making. I'll keep you posted on the success rate of this one.

Making Paté

 Every year I like to have something different for the Christmas Eve menu chez nous. I'm experimenting with Family Traditions, as we all tend to do, and a festive Christmas Eve Supper always sounds so promising. Seafood features prominently, and this year was no exception: we had oyster soup, thick and creamy with a drizzle of tarragon-mint pesto, served over crispy fresh  puff pastry squares. We also had home-smoked salmon with capers and crispy garlic slivers and thyme-scented baguettes. I usually try to have a paté of some sort squeezed in there because we all adore the stuff. In fact, I have to wrap it up carefully and hide it in the back of the fridge so FDPG can't snack on it morning, noon, and night, thus depriving the rest of us of the pleasure of its company.


Last year I made a baked paté. The recipe required chicken livers, bacon, juniper berries and lots of black pepper, all ground up to a manageable but chunky thickness. It was grainy and perfectly, delectably delicious. It also tended to fall apart when sliced and slipped onto a cracker and popped into one's mouth (in between moments of Christmas levity, as one does) and so, as I observed my Less Adventurous At Eating Awkward Food In Public friends struggling during last year's Christmas party, I resolved to try a creamier, spreadable version this year.

I used this recipe (click on this link). I didn't have any shallots or madeira so I substituted a small onion and a large glass of brandy. You will note from the photo at left that large quantities of butter are involved. This is what gives the meat its creaminess, so be forewarned and don't eat the entire bowl in one sitting. Don't eat the entire bowl by YOURSELF, I mean. I use unsalted butter, because I like the taste better. Salted butter tastes overly salty to me.

It's pretty easy to make, so if you're like me: you love it but hate splashing out on the good (and often horribly expensive) stuff, gather together some chicken livers and try this. I will add one caveat before you source your chicken livers: being that the liver is the organ that filters the blood and so is intimately involved in any drug use the body may indulge in, make sure you get livers from birds that haven't been subjected to lots of hormones or antibiotics. Here in BC we're lucky that poultry is always hormone (and often antibiotic) free.

 Don't forget to sample the brandy extensively. Quality control and all, you know.

 Just don't do what I did and tilt the pan over the burner in the hopes of reducing the brandy a little quicker, particularly if you have a gas stove like I do, because you will LIGHT THE ENTIRE PAN ON FIRE, like I did. If you have enough brandy in the pan, like I did, it will result in a terrific panful of giant blue flames.

This will ensure the immediate presence of your husband, who will think you are not safe left alone in a kitchen with alcohol and matches, despite your protestations that we'll all have lots of amusing memories to look back on one day. He might make tart remarks to the effect of "burning down the house is HYSTERICAL, I agree" but ignore him.

The finished product. It's oddly pourable at first, what will all that soft butter and brandy, but not to worry: just find a dish that suits your fancy and pour it in, then leave it to sit for a few hours while it turns to a creamy, thick, perfectly fabulous paste.

Cold Weather Ramblings

 It's been cold here for the past few days. Noticeably cold. Cold so that even the Boy Who Wears Shorts All Year Long has taken to wearing jeans once in a while. The only real upside to all this cold is that it's sunny most days.

Here is a picture of a chocolate cake. A chocolate cake I gave away. It was part of a fundraiser at Max's school. FDPG and Dominic couldn't figure out why I would spend SO MUCH TIME baking and icing a chocolate cake that they would not be eating. I might have wondered the same thing once or twice, but it was still fun packaging it up in a proper cake box and taking it into the school.

 The last of the summer tomatoes. Look at them: they look so fresh, don't they? You'd never know that they were green nubs on the vines that I hauled up at summer's end, destined for the compost bin. They've been sitting in the window frame on the deck for the past 3 months, ripening veeerrrrryyyyy slowly.

 Mason bee cocoons sitting in a bleach solution. This is the time to open up your bee houses and clean them out. I was rather Darwinian about the idea of cleaning bee cocoons at first, but after watching several generations of bees get chewed to tragic extinction by mites, I now do the Excavate & Rinse Then Bleach routine. It's neither fun nor amusing, but the survival rate is significant enough to keep me at it. In fact, you'll be surprised what survives the bleach routine. I've got a portable little magnifier, so I can see them all. Weird AND gross.

 With all the cold weather we've been having, Toffee has been spending more and more time indoors, mostly hiding in out of the way places where we can't find him and toss him outside. Today he spent approximately 7 and a half minutes in the Great Outdoors. Three of them scratching at the door to be let in again.

Virtual Pottery Classes & Errant Trees

 It used to be the kids brought home mugs that they'd painted at a class or shaped themselves with clay.

Now they bring home mugs they've made in computer class.

 Looking out my bedroom window at about 7:45 am this morning.
As I took this photo, it occurred to me, not for the first time, that while I complain constantly about the overbearing, protected-by-rigid-city-ordinances Garry oaks in our neighbour's yard (trust me, I complain constantly), they DO add to a photo. They slouch so dramatically. I love the artistic angle of them. I don't love how they shade my garden, but I have at least 489 photos of them under various conditions. 
That said, don't loiter around them: they snap and break in unpredictable moments. Never when you'd expect it - a high wind or a hard, cold rain (when you're least likely to be under one). The oak to the left lost a massive bough last year, a gnarly old branch 20' long, which fell so hard it sank 4' into the ground. I was out in the garden one warm, June day, looking up at the sky, when I heard a huge CRACK! The branch broke away quite slowly, considering, then fell heavily to the ground, smashing through a few other branches as it went. The whole side of the hill we live on rumbled as though there had been an earthquake. The neighbours poured out of their houses, and we all stood staring at what looked like a (wooden) missile crash. And even after all that the city refused to let anyone give those bloody oaks a good prune.

Look at this. I don't know about you, but my letters never look quite like this.

Wish they did.